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Delivery

 


I met a friend at a coffee shop yesterday afternoon for our monthly catch-up.  I arrived first, and while I was placing my order, I saw a former client of mine.  We hadn't seen each other in quite a while, and greeted each other with smiles and a hug.  

I know what's coming.

We exchanged pleasantries and small talk.  

Any minute now...

She asked a few questions about how my work was going and told me about her workouts and what she had been doing.  

Any second now...

And then she asked it.  The question I knew was coming.  

"How's your husband doing?"

"My husband died."  No hesitation.  No preamble.  No introduction.  

She recoiled, took a step back, hand on her chest, jaw wide open.

"Oh my God," she stammered.  "I'm so sorry.  I don't...I can't...I'm so sorry."

I gave her a sympathetic smile.  "I'm sorry," I offered.  "I'm still working on my delivery.  I'm not quite sure how to break the news to people.  I guess shock and awe is my method right now."

She nodded, continuing to express her sympathies.  We chatted for a few more minutes.  She asked a few more questions, gave me another hug, and made a hasty exit.  I felt empathy for her.  There is no right thing to say or right way to respond.  I am four months down the road, and she is at day one.  I didn't blame her for making a hasty retreat.  I am sure she needed to process the news and didn't want to do it in a coffee shop full of people.

I placed my order, got my tea, and sat down at a table just in time to see another former client.  I had run into her a month after Scott died, so she knew about his death.  I was a mess the first time I saw her.  Everything was still so fresh.  Four months later, I find myself in a different headspace, with distance and time on my side, but she didn't know that.  I could see in her eyes that she was remembering my sobbing breakdown in the middle of the restaurant the last time we crossed paths.  She gave me a hug and proceeded to nervously chat about her son's upcoming birthday party, Christmas, work, everything under the sun EXCEPT Scott.  I could tell she was making a conscious effort to not ask how I was doing, or how things had been going, or what I had been up to.  She anxiously rambled for a few minutes, I asked a few questions about her son and her work, and we parted ways.  

Last week, when I called to make the vet appointment for Lily, a nice and sympathetic woman answered the phone.  I was crying when I told her why I needed the appointment.  I could hear her fingers tapping away at her keyboard as she searched the schedule.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't catch your name.  Can you tell me again?"

I repeated my name to her.

"I'm not finding it in the system.  Oh.  Yes.  Here it is.  It's under Scott."

I didn't say anything.  

"Okay, I have you down for tomorrow at 4:30.  Does that work for you and Scott?"

I didn't correct her through my tears, only confirmed that the time worked.

"I'm so sorry," the nice lady said.  "We will see you and Scott tomorrow at 4:30."

"Scott's dead.  He died in August.  Can you take his name off the account, please?" I said as tears rolled down my cheeks.

"Oh my God.  I am so sorry.  How many more times can I stick my foot in my mouth?  I am so sorry.  Yes, of course.  I am..."

I interrupted her.  "It's okay.  I'll see you tomorrow."  I hung up the phone.  

I don't know the right way to deliver the news.  I guess I could preclude my announcement with platitudes like, "I have some bad news," or "There was a tragedy earlier this year," or something to that effect.  It seems strange to soften the news, though.  Death is not a soft thing.  Sometimes it's abrupt.  Other times it's a long, slow road.  But it's never soft.  Scott's death was especially abrupt.  He was healthy, vibrant, and alive one day, and gone the next.  No warning.  No notice.  No softness.  It seems fitting to me that the delivery of the news of his death should be as abrupt as his actual death.  

I know these encounters will continue to happen.  Perhaps, with time, I will soften my approach to delivering the news.  Right now, abrupt feels right.  I don't want the preamble or the long explanation.  It's cumbersome and exhausting.  Yes, Scott passed away.  Yes, I will have to continue to share that news with people for a while.  But I am four months away from his death, and those four months feel more like four lifetimes.  I will share the news, accept the condolences, and then move the conversation on to other, happier things.  I have existed long enough in sadness and despair.  It's time to live in happy and joy and love and support.  If abrupt gets me to happy sooner, abrupt it is.  

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